Shadow scars
by Inkfire
Summary: The Doctor is lost in thoughts of the past, and Rose attempts to reach him there - through the darkness, into long-guarded emotions.


**Just a bit of Nine/Rose goodness, because I felt like it. Why I keep getting inspired for those two when they're not coming anywhere close to my list of OTP's I'll never know. Ah well, they more than deserve the attention anyway…**

**I don't own the Doctor (sadly) nor even Rose, nor the TARDIS, nor anything at all. Don't own the little line in italics, that was from the End of the World episode. Can't even claim Melissa Majoria, I found it on Wikipedia.**

* * *

"What's on your mind, Doctor?" she asked, leaning comfortably against the console.

"Nothing," he snapped too quickly. "Next trip. How about… Melissa Majoria? Pretty name, isn't it? Most of the Earth's bees come from there. And therefore, more types of honey than your little mind could imagine. Would be fun for a quick visit."

"You took me there last week," Rose said, laughing a little, but not quite.

"Oh."

He patted and fussed over the console automatically – uncharacteristic, that was. Rose's eyes would not leave him, and he was worsening his case, he could tell. Two minutes – no, not even that. He gave her twenty seconds, even started mentally counting them down, just for something to do.

"Okay, what's wrong with you?" he heard at twelve, and smirked for a beat, congratulating himself on having her well figured out already. Or perhaps it was the other way around, he considered next. He fully turned to face her, raising his eyebrows.

"Nothing!"

"Yeah, right. You don't fool me," Rose replied pointedly, staring at him.

He shrugged. "I'm thinking. Got an old head, lots of things stacked up there. Rows and rows of thoughts and sometimes they're not even in the proper order."

"Good things?"

"What's good things? Clever things. Brain things. Thoughts. Rings a bell to you?"

She pursed her lips. "You're not going to tell me."

He shrugged again and turned his face away. His hands moved swiftly, smoothly; it felt good to focus on those simple touches, the TARDIS humming low under his guidance. That subtle song relaxed the tense lines of his shoulders ever so slightly, helped him breathe deeper. It wasn't that Rose's companionship was not as good; simply, she didn't have those hundreds of years behind her, that shared weight, a dark, deep insight. She was refreshing and warm, young, alive and amazing – but she didn't _know_.

And yet he had told her, a little. He had told her he was alone; he had told her there was nothing left – _rocks and dust, a planet gone before its time_ –, nothing left but old, mad, lonely him. What more was there to say, really? Words couldn't cover the reality of war, fright, running. Words couldn't bring back the vivid sky of his childhood. Memories were no good for the likes of him, too guilty to indulge himself. He could run from them as well as anything else – had to. Rose never needed to know what he had done and what he had lost. Those scars were best left buried deep.

"Don't you trust me?" she wondered, in a soft, pensive tone he knew was not as distant as it meant to sound.

"Ah. Don't be silly." He snorted like he always did when she got too emotional, pretended to find her ridiculous – and that he wasn't ill-at-ease in the slightest. And yet – in a way, he now had _nothing but_ the TARDIS, and Rose. It was small, and it was huge, and it was, doubtlessly and without a choice, his everything. Didn't he owe her the truth, then, in a way?

"I'm not being silly," she replied in a slightly outraged tone, and he laughed lightly under his breath. Glancing up, he gazed into her face – big, brown, concerned eyes, teeth slightly gnawing on one full, pouty lip. Centuries back, he had been that innocent, and perhaps that giving – that he wasn't quite sure of. Rose Tyler had seen no deaths yet, and he would try his very hardest to ensure it remained so. He would not have a burning world haunt those dark irises, nor guilt and regret lay its strain on the soft, open lines of her face.

Generous was what she was, and she was giving him those days with her, her energy and strength, her laughter and jibes, her tenderness, without even thinking of what it meant. He could give her a bit of himself in return, if only in a story. Part of him wanted to, he realized. It was a new feeling, a freshness that left him more alert, but also more vulnerable.

"Tell you what," he said, finding his voice a little hoarse. "If you're good, I'll tell you about another planet, one that was _much_ better than anything you've ever seen. Its name was Gallifrey, and it had skies of fire, stretching wide and blindingly orange overhead…"

* * *

**Note: one could argue that Rose has seen the death of Cassandra – she didn't really die, but Nine never knew that. Bite me, I didn't count that part. I liked that line too much to allow a bitchy trampoline to cheat me out of it =P**


End file.
